


Whether there be prophecies

by Melanie_D_Peony



Category: Constantine (2005), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Casual mention of mental illness with no research done in the topic, Crossover, God is a man in this one, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Loosely based on plot of Constantine (2005), M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Really Canon Compliant, Smoking, Sprinkled with direct quotes, Strong Language, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, inconsistent style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-19 21:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19980958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_D_Peony/pseuds/Melanie_D_Peony
Summary: When Aziraphale disappears, leaving only a mysterious message behind, Crowley is forced to go searching for him. Abandoned by Heaven and hunted by Hell, he is racing against time as the angel's disappearance can only mean one thing: the Apocalypse is afoot. Again.





	1. Dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:  
> The author is a non-native English speaker, who picked up a large portion of her vocabulary through works of fiction and popular culture. The work had no beta reader. Any inconsistent, erroneous or, God forbid, offensive use of slang, phrases and colloquialisms are due to this fact. The author also does not know how commas work. Therefore any and all comments and corrections are welcome. This author also appreciates help with tagging, in case she's overlooked any triggering content.
> 
> The therapy and treatment of a mentally ill character, described as ineffective and obstructive, is strictly fictional and serves narrative purposes. The author is a firm believer of therapy and other treatments and realises that most hospitals genuinely work towards making patients better. The depiction/mentions of mental illness are highly fictionalised, not based on reality, facts or research. This is a work of fiction that does not intend to educate on the topic and should not, under any circumstances, be seen as a reliable source of information or reference.
> 
> This is a work of fan fiction. The author does not own any of these characters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which corruption is depicted as a rotting apple.

_He thought, therefore he was._

The first He in this sentence meaning God almighty himself. He thought and therefore he, Crawley, was. He came to being, fully developed and in full possession of all his wit and his senses and his personality. Full possession of everything that made him Crawley, all the things that gave him this unique "Crawley-like" quality. It was the highest high ever experienced. [1]

After being created, Crawley went on thinking up his name. Crawley just arrived to him, as naturally as anything, as if there was no other option, as if he was designed and intended to be Crawley. This name and him, they just... clicked somehow. This inspired feeling of inventing something was the second best feeling in the world. [2] Being so overjoyed, he quickly created the phrase "wooooeee" and hurriedly used it on the spot.

The original act of creation spawned yet more creation, that spread even further, like a beautiful Fibonacci sequence of inventiveness. 

In wake of his out-of-breath exclamation, someone emitted the first ever chuckle. [3] Crawley turned to this other person. It was an angel, like Crawley himself, yet different. He was pudgy, with a halo of curly, blond hair and with stunning eyes, that were so... blue. They were the benchmark for blue, Crawley noted later on. They were the colour all other blue eyes aspired to become. Yet they never quite managed. This other angel was the walking, chuckling embodiment of the word soft. Crawley waved at him, shyly. The other angel waved back at him with the very expression that the word 'chuffed' was created to describe.[4] Someone else gave a small cough. Crawley turned to this other angel. Gabriel wasn't quite as impressed with him as the soft one. And Lucifer looked at him with positively stern eyes. Crawley later realised, the Fallen One began to doubt the ineffable plan the moment he laid his eyes on him. But he didn't rebel yet. It was only the second day, after all. 

He was standing in a circle of expectant angels. They were clearly wanting him to do something. Given that it was the holiest point of his existence, Crawley said the words anyone would have said in his place, at such a remarkable moment.

'Hi guys.' 

'Angel...' Gabriel began and then took a meaningful pause immediately after. 

Crawley waited. The entire process of creation awkwardly halted for a moment. 

'Say your name.' stage whispered the curly angel, leaning closer to Crawley. 

'Ah. It's Crawley.' 

'Angel Crawley!' Gabriel continued.

'Pleased to meet you.' whispered the soft one with a welcoming smile.

'Shut up, Aziraphel!' Lucifer thundered. 

He didn't like this guy, Crawley decided. But then, neither did the rest of the world. 

'Angel Crawley!' Gabriel began for the third time. The feeling of mild irritation was created. The other angels in the group began to cough and do the little dance of second hand embarrassment, standing on one leg first, then on the other. There were further whispers. 

'You have been selected!' Gabriel was desperately trying to hold on to his dignity that was slipping away from him rapidly. 'Time to meet your Maker.' 

He meant it literally. He had been angry with Crawley, yes. But he wasn't threatening him. He simply meant:

_Dad wants to see you._

He was the Garden and the Garden was Good. It was this sense of safety and a feeling of being understood beyond limit, of simply being _held_. The Garden was Love. 

Some things are made to be forbidden, Crawley was told. He watched as a tiny seed appeared. They carry the Knowledge, he was informed. Of the difference between Good and Evil. They are forbidden, because they carry the potential of corruption. 

There was no corruption in the Garden, so he was shown what it was. He was flooded with images of taunt, rosy skin going wrinkled; of fresh, white flesh turning a brown mash. It was a graceless timelapse of beauty escaping.

Because Knowledge bears the Choice. Only knowingly can someone meaningfully decide between two sides.

And God buried it, in the middle of the Garden.

_He_ buried it, the seed of Evil within something Pure.

The need to Know is a choice in itself. To question is an attempt to define. 

Suddenly, Crawley was suffocating. He was looking at ripples on the surface of a crystal clear lake. Only he was to understand that the inviting liquid was laced with poison to very last drop. He had this understanding in him, buried deep like a strong, hard pip. It made him shiver, crawl for a patch of sunlight, because he felt like he was never going to be warm again. 

The only definition anyone was ever going to need, was Him. To question is to defy.

He realised too late how pointed these words were. By that time, the Garden has changed. It had no place for him anymore. By then, he changed. He had no place left for the Garden. Beauty was escaping him. He became smooth and hard and quick. He became poison. 

He was to doubt, to question, to define, to defy. To tempt.

He was to _corrupt_. 

He met Aziraphel, when it was all over. And later that day Aziraphael was the one to describe Crawley's fate not as falling, but "vaguley sauntering downwards". Because upon transforming back to his bipedal demon form, Crawley wasn't quite the way he was meant to be. He was meant to be angry. He was supposed to speak down to the angel. He was supposed to display wrath or lust or really, any of the deadly sins. He was supposed to be appalling, he supposed to seem outrageous to Aziraphel. 

Instead he seemed tired, unsure and mildly apologetic, like someone who was recovering from an illness and was still highly infectious, but was, regrettably, made to come back to work, because he had no more paid leave. 

He mused about how it would be funny if he did the right thing and Aziraphel did the wrong one, but he wasn't amused. A bit jealous, perhaps, Aziraphel thought and suddenly he was very aware how he, too, just rebelled against God. It was a self conscious feeling, like having a smudge of dirt on his face and being unable to shake off the impression that everyone was staring at it. But the everyone in this scenario was an immortal, omnipotent being. Who was kicking angels out for the smallest display of disobedience lately.

But the moment passed and judgement wasn't brought down to Aziraphel. He, apparently, sinned within the limits of the ineffable plan by giving his flaming sword to the banished humans[5]. Crawley shook his head softly, then offered a hand.

'Here's to the next one, angel.' He spoke with the slightest of lisp, elongating his 's' sounds. 

He had new eyes that were yellow and had vertical, black slits for pupils. Aziraphel found that he couldn't avert his gaze from them. The sadness radiating from them spoke to him on a guttural level. His entire purpose was to right wrongs, and despite being the enemy, Crawley was being wronged somehow, in a big way. He wanted to envelop him in his miracles until he fixed him, but he instinctively knew that he would be messing up the grand design, so he did the only thing that was left for him to do. 

He began to like him. 

'Nice meeting you, Crawley.' 

'It's Crowley now.' said the demon, quite the rebel already. 'I changed it.' 

'Crowley.' nodded Aziraphel, shaking the demon's hand for the twentieth consecutive time. He caught himself and released the man's right in a startled fashion. 

Then they went to their respectable ways.

And spent the next 6000 years circling each other in a progressively shrinking way. Spiraling towards an inevitable collision. 

God never, ever told any fallen angel again, about how they were created to fall. After losing The Love, they all turned out to be rabid creatures, spitting curses of God from their foaming mouths. 

And then, after the seventh day, they were released to the world. And so were the angels. Like a pack of famished predators upon a herd of bleating sheep, they all leaped onto the unassuming humanity.

And the countdown began. 

* * *

[1]It was a rush of joy, this crisp, new feeling of being alive. It was a feeling that, after experiencing it on the sixth day, Adam spent the rest of his miserable life trying to recreate, inventing alcohol, drugs and bungee jumping in the process. Needless to say, nothing ever came close to it.

[2]Yet to be overtaken by other feelings down the line. Inventing always remained high on the list of great feelings, but it slid behind the self - righteous emotion of saying 'I told you so!' and was closely followed by the rush that cancelling plans gave.

[3]He later won an award for it, as chuckles brought a lot of holy goodness to the world.

[4]God created the word 'chuffed' on the first day, quite understandably.

[5]He had no idea that he will also lie to God about the whole incident later that day. He also didn't know that these tendencies were etched well in his design and God knew perfectly well that he would do all that in a tick.


	2. The undone and the divine

In his dreams he was often in that place again, where love was endless. It was like being in the middle of ocean, but with love spreading in every direction till the eyes can see, instead of mildly salty dihydrogen oxide. But, more often than not, the dreams would turn into a nightmare, or a recollection, of the feeling of love dwindling away, that left him waking in a state of shock and almost physical pain, sweating and panting for air, like someone who'd been held underwater for too long

He was grateful for the scream of the landline that interrupted the whole thing. Even better, it was Aziraphel on the phone.

He loved talking to Aziraphel in bed. Somehow, the angel's voice belonged among the quilts and pillows, as if it was made of the same molecules as high thread count, egyptian cotton sheets and secrets whispered in a semi-conscious state, on the brink of falling asleep. These impressions would have been dangerous some time in the past, but the  _ Armageddin't _ have changed the rules. Crowley had been sleeping more lately, and spent more time reenacting the  _ Hunger games _ with his plants and listening to his best friend talk to him on the phone. And he quite liked this new  _ status quo _ . 

'Mornin' angel.' he yawned, nestling back among the quilts after snatching the demanding receiver. He was decidedly half asleep still and was planning to snooze for another half hour to the sound of his mate babbling about rare books. 

But it wasn't meant to be. Aziraphel's answer came ragged through the lines. 

'Crowley.' 

'How are you?' Crowley demanded, rather than asked. Suddenly, he was extremely alert, kicking off the quilts that seemed to be entwining and trapping him, instead of soothing him. 

'I'm fine.' He definitely wasn't. 'Listen, I'm phoning to ask you a favour.' 

'Anything.' Crowley hurried to say. What he meant to say was: Involve me! Make me a part of this! I can help. But the words never came.

'Could you watch the shop for me for a couple of days?' he was choking on the words, like a dying mother bequesting his child to someone, but he kept his composure. 

'Are you… going away?' He found that he was almost whispering. 

'Business trip, yeah.'

'Is there… anything I need to know?' 

He wasn't being more direct because Aziraphel wasn't either. The line could be intercepted, he thought. Maybe the angel was protecting him, protecting both of them, by saying so little. Oh, havens (or bloody hell) how he wished they made up that safe word they were banging on about for the last decade or so!!! 

'No, it should be easy enough. It will be locked up, with the alarm on and I'll set some supernatural traps for good measure. I just want you to have the keys in case…' 

_ In case of what?! _ He wanted to scream and shout. He was searching his memory desperately for those half arsed safe word attempts. What was it again?! 

'Is this a case of the…  _ whizbang _ ?' He said the last word with emphasis. 

The angel laughed.  _ Bitterly _ . He never laughed bitterly. It was one of his greatest qualities. A world that had Aziraphel in it had no room for bitter laughs. 

He had the terrible, foreboding feeling that his world was changing. Rapidly. Irreversibly.

'Kinda. Sorta.' Said Aziraphel. 'Listen, the key will be under the mat by the back door, okay? The alarm code is…'

'You don't need to tell me. I'm not planning on opening up. You'll be back in a couple of days anyways.'  _ Please say you will!!! _

'The alarm code is - are you taking this down, Crowley? The alarm code is 1254.' 

_ Shit! _

Crowley scrambled for pen and paper and jotted it down. 

'Have you got it?' Aziraphel's voice was hollow. 

'Yeah. Listen, angel, what's goin'...'

'Thank you. And not just for this.' Aziraphel took a deep breath. It was shaky. 'For the French Revolution. And the Second World War. And for Hamlet.'

_ Oh fuck! _

'Angel…'

'And for always taking me to the Ritz for lunch, even though you never eat anything.'

That's it. This… this was a suicide note. He wasn't having it any more.

'Don't hang up. I'm coming over there.' 

'I'm not in the bookshop. On a trip, remember? Taking care of business.' 

'It doesn't matter where you are. I'm coming.' 

_ 'No. You can't.' _

It was like The Fall, all over again. That lifeline of trust and understanding and even love, or at least a form of it, cut short. It was like being switched off from life support. 

'Listen, dear, it's too dangerous. I can't let you come here.' Aziraphel continued in a much softer tone. 

'And I…' he felt a wetness in his eyes that he haven't felt ever since he was kneeling in front of  _ Him _ on that fateful day. He had to will himself to talk through the worry that was lodged somewhere in his throat. 'I can't lose you again!' 

'I'm sorry.' 

Crowley made a soft sound full of complaint and wiped his leaking nose with his hand. His vision was becoming blurred.

'Don't hang up.' He demanded.

'...Crowley?'

The pleading in his voice put a stop to his actions for a moment. 

'When you said that I was your best friend? I just wanted to say thank you. And...' 

'DON'T! HANG! UP!'

He wasn't listening anymore. He was shifting, changing, dematerialising, riding the radio waves, across the air, as fast as he could, towards Aziraphel's cellular phone. 

_ Tell him, _ Aziraphel thought to himself.  _ He deserves to know! Tell him, you coward! You pathetic fool. There will be no other chance. _

'...Crowley?'

There was only silence at the other end of the line. 

'When you said that I was your best friend? I just wanted to say thank you. And...' 

'DON'T! HANG! UP!'

But he ignored it. He hammered on, hoping to spit it all out before he loses his nerve. 

'I just wanted to say: you are  _ my _ best friend too.' 

No response.

He couldn't bear the tension. He hung up.

_ God damn you, you coward.  _

The flow of radio waves abruptly stopped and Crowley stumbled out of air, with nothing to break his fall as he landed among some startled native London pigeons and equally startled foreign tourists. Their alarm only increased when they heard him howl at the sky in a voice not fit for human vocal chords. 

It was the same as Eternal Damnation all over again. 

Only, this was worse. 


	3. It's only when you hit the ground that causes all the grief

Isabel Dodson made a number of hard choices at a tender age. She was used to making difficult decisions. This decision, she was making right now, proved to be the easiest one yet, as it was made for her already.

All the hard choices were behind her, it seemed. Telling her parents about her visions, her sightings, hoping that they will see her for what she is, was the hardest one. Then sticking with her choice and telling the doctors over and over again, that she can see the dead, never lying about being a clairvoyant, never retreating, even when her parents, rather naturally, mistook her powers for sickness, was the second hardest. 

From then on, her choices became rather limited. She could choose to go to therapy and group sessions, or she could choose to stay in her room. She could choose to claw at the walls, the nursers, to scream and to speak in voices or she could stay still like a chatatoniac. She could choose to eat her meals or refuse to eat them and wither away in front of the nurses indifferent eyes. 

But not much else.

And finally, she didn't even get a choice.

Because there wasn't a choice. Not really. Choice here was a mere illusion. 

And she could see. She'd always seen so much. She could always see through the illusions. 

So she had no regrets, as she stood on the edge of the roof, under the absent stars. She delivered one last message, for the one who would understand, by whispering to the wind. She let go of the paper she held. It would land where it should, she knew. She was surprised to see, that she had some tears to shed. Not for herself. She was beyond that.

But for Angie. 

She took a deep breath. She didn't run, she didn't brace herself. She simply leant forward and fell. 

Mercifully, she was dead by the time her body collided with the glass rooftop of the therapeutic pool and crashed onto the water.

Everything remained silent. Only the wind screamed. 

Wings are impractical, everyone knew that. A Bentley is a far more efficient method of transportation, especially if you know how to drive it 90 miles per hour through rush hour London. Discorporating and travelling through telephone lines is even more efficient and riding the superfast internet via optic cables is the near equivalent of teleporting.

But there are times, when you want to use wings. When you want to look and feel like a Fallen Angel, looming over London, bringing down destruction wherever you go.

Anything, but the feeling of this utter hopelessness.

Crowley arrived back to his flat through the windows of the high rise in a dramatic shower of glass, feathers and blood. It cheered him up, somewhat, but only a tiny fraction. He miracled his dishevelled wings away as soon as he was in. There was a wind now, tearing through the flat, due to the lack of windows. It created a miniature tornado inside, matching Crowley's mood rather nicely.

Crowley stormed around the flat, tearing cupboard doors open, pulling his disks on the floor. He was searching, frantically, for a large and up to date map of the Earth - one that, preferably, had all the continents on it.[1]

When he finally found one he spread it on his dining table, weighing the four corners down with four potted plants that, curiously, seemed to tremble in their pots. Then he ran to his bedroom, and opened his safe. It looked empty now that the precious bottle of holy water was gone, but in a dark, faraway corner, there was a small lead box. Crowley lifted the box, clutching it with two fingers as if it was covered in something unpleasant. He took it to the dining room and he opened it. He immediately had to shield his eyes, like he was looking at the Sun. Even though, it was only a dull, silver necklace with a simple cross on it. 

It was a cross he stole from Aziraphel's flat. He had to sneak up, after making the angel drunk one night and he had to leave incredibly fast, as the small cross began to heat up in his pocket due to being close to an actual demon. It burned a hole in his trouser by the time he reached the Bentley, parked in front of the bookshop. It was white hot by the time he was able to cram it in the lead box. 

He had protective gloves somewhere, but he felt he had no time. He grabbed the chain, that was already room temperature, and was warming up fast as he slipped his fingers around it. He held it over the map, above the image of Africa and waited until the cross stopped moving around. He forced himself to look directly at it, even though it made him tear up, as if he was attacked with pepper spray. When the cross remained steady, he moved it, gently, across the border, over to Europe. The cross stayed stubbornly stationary. His skin was burning. He could feel boils forming on his epidermis.

The technique was simple. Take something from the person you are looking for and use it as a pendulum, above a map. Where your pendulum begins to move, you'll find the missing person. 

So the angel wasn't in Europe and he wasn't in Australia. As he moved the cross over Asia, he heard sizzling. It must have been the subcutan layer of fat burning away in his hand. His skin, around the silver chain, looked black and charred. Asia was a dead end and so were the two poles. There was a disturbing smell of burning flesh in the air.

Finally, over the map of North America, the pendulum began to stir. It started to move around in large circles, spinning lazyly. Crowley moved it ever so slowly, down from Minnesota, all the way through Kansas. As he slowly reached the south west, the spiral drawn by the cross began to shrink. When he held it over California, the cross spun with a dizzying speed. Then, without a warning, it suddenly stopped moving before he had a chance to locate the city. 

Crowley screamed in pain and with disappointment. He tried to drop the chain but it was stuck to his charred hand. He pried it away with his other hand, scorching his fingers in the process. He dropped the cross on the map and the hot metal immediately began to burn through the thin layer of paper. Crowley studied his wound. The good news was that the heat cauterised it. There was no blood. The bad news was that he could see bone. 

He could have miracled away the burn, but the pain was grounding him so nicely. So he wrapped a rag, he retrieved from a drawer, around his fist. Then he used a fork to lift the necklace back to the lead box and he swept the lead box in a conveniently placed rubbish bin. Then he turned to the map. 

There was a scorch mark, on the map of California, shaped like a cross, over the part where the city of Los Angeles would be. 

_The City of Angels?_ Crowley mused. Could have been a coincidence. But it also seemed rather… _fitting_. 

Whether Aziraphel was in LA or not, he would not be able locate him now. Something was interfering with Aziraphel's unique angelic signal. Something was shielding him from his searching spell. Or he may have… _No._ He refused to entertain the idea that something might have happened to him. 

Either way, it was time to make a move. He will go to LA and he will retrieve his angel or… No. AND he will make someone _pay_.

Travelling with a Bentley was efficient. Using his wings was dramatic. But nothing, and that means _nothing_ ever compared to the speed of actual teleporting.

* * *

[1] So the one from his trip with Colombus on the Santa Maria wouldn't suffice. Oh, what a hellish years they were, the fourteen hundreds!


	4. God bless us, everyone

The bouncer made him stop. 

'Password?' He demanded.

'Frog on a ladder.' 

The hired muscle picked up the top card from a handy deck of Tarot. He showed it up. It was a picture of two rats in dresses. Until it wasn't. All it took was a little demonic miracle of a kind. 

'Wrong.' Said the bouncer.

'Look again, asshole.' 

The bouncer turned the card around to inspect it. Crowley pushed past him. 

The club's atmosphere rushed ahead to meet him as he descended on the tall, narrow steps. It was a mixture of dark, ambient music and the smell of alcohol and a flooded petting zoo. He saw a group of demons, crouching on a top of a table, feasting on something looking raw, wet and alive. There was a parliament of angels, perched on bar stools; bad omens personified. And beyond the chaos of sweating bodies, engaged in the sacrilegious act of what one might try to classify as dancing, there was a soundproof door, leading to the office of Papa Midnite himself. 

Papa Midnite was an institution. An immortal witch hunter at the beginning, he turned a couple hundred years ago and opened this hellhole, where opposing forces could meet on equal grounds; this happened more often, than most simple churchgoing souls would suspect. But rarely did angels and demons have the kind of laid back relationship Crowley and Aziraphale had, so they needed a no man's land where a temporary armistice was constantly maintained - and that was Midnite's niche. 

Mindnite looked up, as he entered. He was enjoying a good cigar and was counting a pile of money, as if he was caught posing for a portrait of the many vices of men. He looked Crowley's latest incarnation up and down. The demon looked like hell. Gone was the usual suave outfit, the runaway walk. He practically stumbled in the room and his clothes looked as if they were road tested in a wind tunnel[1]. He looked as if he was being chased by all the hounds of Hell, which could have been a very literal reality for a character like Crowley. Midnite was not so secretly enjoying seeing him like this. When they last met, his latest body was being burned at the stake and it was Crowley who was gloating from afar. It felt nice, being on the opposite side for once, leaning back in his handsome chair, with his new, tall, dark, handsome body, watching Crowley throw himself at his feet. He felt so much in control, he decided he can afford to open with a clichė.

'Anthony J. Crowley. You've got a lot of nerve, coming here.' 

'I haven't got much of a choice.' Crowley contradicted him. He had the audacity to look disgruntled about having to come to him. That wasn't right. He should be squirming, like the vermin he is. 'Midnite, I need a favour.' 

Mindite took out his cigar as a way of expressing his disbelief; you can hardly smoke if you are shocked breathless.

'I've been waiting for these words for a millennia now and out of the blue, suddenly, they are here. You didn't give me time to prepare for the satisfaction of telling you to go to Hell.' He complained softly. 

'Argh, not this again. You can't possibly be holding a grudge since the Middle Ages. You were a witch hunter back than. I was, still am, a demon. We were hereditary enemies. But you move in a grey area now, Midnite. You are in the position to deal with both sides.'

'And you don't have a side. Heaven won't help you. Hell won't have you back. And I, a respectable businessman, wouldn't touch you with a pole.' 

'Jolly good. Sit here, pretend to be Switzerland, while around you the world ends.' 

The demon saw the man's eyes widen, for a flash. He's got his full attention, but sadly, not his trust.

'Quit bluffing, Crowley. For a demon, you are a pathetic liar.' 

'Too bad I'm telling the truth. What would it take for you, to believe me?' 

That was the thing. What proof _did_ he have, other than the angel going AWOL, being all mysterious? But then, Aziraphale's idea of thwarting evil was inviting Crowley to the Ritz and to plays and for drinks in the bookshop, so he couldn't concentrate on inventing insidious stuff, like power cuts, traffic jams and the Youtube comment section. Him disappearing with a speech on the dangers of his mission could only mean one thing; the Apocalypse was afoot. Again.

Midnite eyed him suspiciously. Crowley's aggressive demeanor didn't seem to convince him: 

'You would have to be someone else, for one.' 

Touchê. He could hardly blame Midnite for being less than trusting. Whatever their relationship was, it went up in flames, along with Midnite's body, somewhere near Salem. 

'Well, let's say I have a hunch. I am a demon, Midnite. If the end was near, I would know about it.' 

'By definition, maybe. But you are tainted, man. Rumor has it that when you die, Lucifer himself will come to get your skinny ass.'

Crowley suspected that much. The Higher Powers were hardly the most forgiving creatures and they weren't exactly pleased with his record of first messing up and then outright stopping the Armageddon, on top of which he fooled them into not executing him. _If_ he was ever granted the luck of being executed again, it was going to be after a long and thorough torture session of a few hundred thousand years.

'So excuse me for doubting that you would know anything about an imminent Apocalypse, demon.' 

'The intel is good, hunter. And it gives you a chance to stop what is yet to come.' 

Midnite jumped up with the kind of agility that he would have been able to produce a thousand years ago, but Crowley did not expect to see from his latest corporeal form. He was on his feet, banging his fist on the table. 

'I have no business interfering with either side's plans or dealings, demon.'

'If you don't do anything, you will have no business, end of sentence. There will be little to no market for this bullshit of being fair and balanced, if either side wins. And just because none of them hate you, it doesn't mean that either side cares for your dirty little soul.' 

Midnite's tense shoulders slouched a hair to this. So he struck a nerve there. Crowley knew fully well, that being a two faced liar meant that you were always aware - at the end of the day, you will have to stand your ground alone, having turned all your allies against you. Having no allies to begin with, kind of meant the same.

'How about a deal, than? We both know, that I am right about the Rapture. You must have heard some rumors. You must have seen some signs. All I am asking is for, is to share some info. My channels of information, as you might imagine, are nearly all dried up. What's my side doing? What exactly are they trying to assemble? There's got to be word on the street.'

'What do you have left to offer?'

'Ever wondered what the "J" stands for?'

This got Midnite thinking for a minute. He may have had a bar to run, where dollars were being exchanged for the opportunity to get shitfaced, but the real currency of his business were Things with Power; names, truths, secrets. 

'Come on, man. A thousand years ago, before you were a businessman, your name had struck terror in the hearts of the heathen you now kiss ass for.' Crowley couldn't resist to add. 

'And a thousand years ago, you were the exact same son of a bitch as now.' Midnite spat it at him, angered and indignant. Negotiations were over. The ban on violence was being lifted. 

Here it was, again. He patted his pockets, fumbled for a cigarette. Midnite offered him his lighter, which he graciously accepted. He stood, leant over the table and when his tobacco was flaming, blew the first breath of smoke in the other man's face. He threw the only truly meaningful curse he knew along with it, filling every syllable with feel. 

' _God damn you.'_

A few minutes later he was standing outside the bar, under the stuffy, dusty wings of the LA summer night. He flicked the remains of the feg away, turned his collar up. He had no allies, no plan and no angel on his side. He was a flaming Bentley away from being back where it had all began. 

Lucky, that rock bottom was his natural habitat. Where Heaven all but deserts you and Hell wouldn't sink as low as to have you. On his own. No sides.

On his own side. 

Somehow it's always the shittiest little diner that is open all night, Crowley concluded as he threw his load on the table in the greasy little box he'd chosen. That may have been bad for morale, but it also meant that the despairing waitress wouldn't look twice at him as he arrived, carrying seemingly every print available in LA. To her, he was just another weirdo who, with God's willing, will disappear into the night never to be heard of ever again by her, or by anyone else, potentially. 

There was a way to look for telling signs of the end of the world as we know it. The answer, as Crowley well remembered, was one word. 

_Tabloids._

Of course, this was a rather more tedious way then simply being told, as humans became really good at collecting information but were exceptionally bad at saturation. But demons, luckily for Crowley, had other ways of gathering words, than reading. He spread the papers all over the table as best as he could, then began to run his fingers over them as if he was literally clawing for the news in the steaming heap of mean spirited rumors and trivialities. The words sounded in his head in a multitude of voices as he read with his fingers, much like he was listening to fifty newscasters at the same time. They arrived as snippets as his attention quickly turned to the next one and the next one after: ... _he murdered… while the stock market began… by stealing over a hundred… and this new diet fad… as she was cheating on her current fiance…_ Until suddenly one word stuck out, as if it was written in flaming scarlet letters inside his eyelids, whispered by an insistent, echoey, serpentine voice well over the threshold of the background noise of irrelevant news. 

_ISABEL._

Crowley grabbed the paper on which his hand was resting, tracing the article on the front page. _Suicide in the mental hospital_. It was a condescending piece, littered with very apologetic comments from the hospital spokesperson, that condemned the institution for failing to prevent young Isabel Dodson's death. There was something special about this woman. He needed to find out more.

 _"Isabel is dearly missed, grieved by friends and her loving sister Angela. "_ it said under, as a closing sentence. Crowley stuck his hand in the paper pile, pulling out a tabloid seemingly at random, that was falling naturally on the page where the orbituaries are. Isabel's was in the middle section, inviting people for service in a church downtown, on the 5th which was… Crowley shook his wrist and his watch slid out from under his black shirt sleeve[2]. He checked it. The 5th was today. 

Suddenly, the waitress, who must have took pity on Crowley, appeared over his table and placed an acrid looking, plain, black cup of joe gently on his pile. Crowley reached for his wallet, but the waitress, too indifferent to wait for change, just shrugged.

'It's on the house.' 

'Bless you.' Crowley said, peering over the brim of his glasses, astonished. She must have seen his yellow eyes, but this was LA, for God's sake. She'd seen weirder things during any old shift, so she just shuffled back to her preferred position, by the counter, near the similarly depressed cook.

Crowley chugged the boiling substance greedily down. He gathered his papers and on his way out executed a little demonic miracle. Upon arriving back to her shitty flat, the waitress was going to find out that her assholeish landlord was taken ill and replaced by his far more genteel son, indefinitely. 

He dropped the pile of papers in a bin nearby. He considered miracling a car, or getting in a taxi, but it was four in the morning. The memorial service wasn't for another five hours. He decided to walk.

Angela Dodson jumped a few stages in grieving and arrived to Anger early on, only to halt there, unable, _unwilling_ to move forward, because you had Acceptance at the end of the line and she could not afford that, that would have been unbearable. Currently, she was standing in the aisle of the St Vincent de Paul, venting at her long suffering friend and spiritual guide, as having failed her sister in life, she was now going to make everyone suffer, who wronged her in her death. 

'She needs to get a catholic burial, Father.' She insisted, convinced if anyone ever was, that her passion was to move mountains; that specific mountain of Religion, the thing that was simultaneously her only solace at this trying time and the source of all her grief. 

'It's still considered a mortal sin, Angela.' The priest said.

'She didn't kill herself.' 

'The bishop thinks otherwise.' He pointed out.

'The bishop? Father. David. It's Isabel we are talking about. She always thought that God was the only one who loved her. You can't believe that she would do that to herself.' 

'I never would have thought that I am going to say this but… it doesn't really matter what I believe.'

'I need you, David. I need Him.' She gestured, vaguely, towards the ceiling. 'Why did He let me down? Did I not say enough prayers? Did I miss a bead on the rosary? Why did He abandon us all?' Angela covered her burning eyes with her palms. She wasn't, she couldn't cry. She was parched of tears, dry with anger and she couldn't and she couldn't manage being sad, but _boy_ , did she want to shoot somebody. 

'He didn't abandon you. He would never do that. It's only a matter of whether we abandon Him.' 

'Yeah well, thanks for nothing, David.' She began to walk away before she found herself in the middle of the unforgivable act of punching a priest.

'Angela.' The young man called after her. 'Angela!'

But it was too late. She turned on her heels and was storming out of the building, solemnly swearing that she'll never enter the neo gothic gates again. 

As she passed the benches, a gangly junkie jumped up and began to follow her. She spotted him early on, almost as soon as she arrived, as he was donning sunglasses inside the dimly lit church. She instinctively knew trouble when she saw it, she'd been with LAPD for long enough. Now she concluded that the glasses were to disguise his bloodshot eyes, since he must have been on something like methamphetamine, as he was unable to stop shaking and twitching his long limbs. This was unsurprising. St Vincent was a busy church in a busy part of town and not only the spiritually challenged would seek shelter between its impressive, sacred walls. She wrapped her finger discreetly around the gun, hoisted on her hip, however, because while _"love thy neighbour"_ was a beautiful sentiment, it wasn't an insurance policy. The man caught up with her and tapped her on the shoulder.

'Angela Dodson?' He asked, doing a little polka in one spot as Angela planted herself firmly in front of him, spreading her legs ever so slightly so she can have a steady stance if it came to shooting at the end. Her hand was itching anyway, so she was inwardly willing the guy to do something stupid. _To protect and to serve_ she repeated to to herself, like a mantra. 

'Who wants to know?'

'Anthony Crowley. Here to talk about your sister.'

'I don't talk to the press.' 

'Wise choice. Wouldn't do it either. They are ghastly.' _Ghastly?_ Who _is_ this man? 'But me, I consider myself more of a… private investigator of a kind. Could we talk someplace else? Churches make me uncomfortable.' 

'No, we couldn't.' Angela reached for her notebook now, jotting the man's name down. If Anthony Crowley had done anything illegal, ever in his life, she was going to find out about it. 'And we won't. Listen, whatever you are offering, whatever it is you are trying to sell, I don't need…' 

'He is wrong about that, you know. About the whole abandoning thing. God didn't just abandon you, He screwed you, all of you, over. He created a system of impossible rules and unfair regulations to decide who goes up and who goes down and began his ineffable game, the long wager, throwing humanity on the table as a bargaining chip. So when somebody dies the way Isabel did, the Devil wins another easy hand in God's poker game.' 

She blinked. Nobody ever spoke to her about her religion like this, with this bitterness, ever. For most people, just trying to get along, doing the little 'live and let live' practice, forming an actual opinion about religion wasn't really an option. 

Crowley shrugged, which probably would have looked far more suave and cool if he wasn't still doing a jig.

'Take your time, detective. You'll know where to find me, when you are ready to talk. _For ridding oneself of faith is like boiling sea - water to retrieve the salt - something is gained, but something is lost.'_

'Is this Corinthians?' Frowned Angela, convinced that it wasn't. She knew her Bible.

Crowley didn't answer, just walked away.

* * *

[1]One of the many disadvantages of actual flying.

[2]His watch showed the time and the date in five different major cities. And in Hell. Although that clock face never changed. It was cracked, stuck on midnight. Although that was just aesthetic. It could just as well have said IT'S OVER in bold capitals. 


	5. As above, so below

She wasn't going to talk to Crowley. Not that she had many leads or many other options. No, it was on principle. He was the kind of vulture, who appeared precisely when you were your weakest, to rid you of your money and your last remaining shreds of sanity. He said 'private investigator' which, she knew, will quickly morph into 'medium' or 'seer' if she was ever to contact him again. Which she wasn't.

So she did what she's done obsessively for the past 20 hours or so instead; watched the CCTV tape of the last 10 minutes of her sister's life, for the nth time. It looked grainy and monochrome, befitting of a life lived mostly in a padded room, on her desktop computer at the police station.

Izzy stumbled into view, like an apparition, white hospital gown thrashing violently in the wind. She looked straight into the camera's eye, as if she was mutely trying to communicate something to Angela herself. And then, she just stood there, for good three minutes, her hair flailing, gaze never breaking. Normally Angela fast forwarded the tape to the point where she simply leaned forward, like when they were children, one last trust fall, for the sake of old times, before she disappeared out of view, beyond the edge of the roof. But not today. Today, it was a penance of a kind, being there for her in death, if she wasn't there for her in life. She watched her, last ever performance, last bow toward the void, before the curtain call. And then, a conjuring act, something where there was nothing before, the Isabel on the tape began to talk. Looking at Angela she mouthed the word softly; it almost got lost in the howl of the wind, but she recognised it because she heard it before, it reverberated in her head, deafening.

 _'Crowley.'_

She briefly looked behind, as if she heard someone approaching on the empty roof towards her. A moment later she lifted her fist, loosened her fingers, let a tiny piece of paper fly out of it, flutter away in the wind. Then she turned her attention back to depth beyond the roof. And a second later she was gone, again. 

Angela rewound the tape a few frames. She waited the for the word to repeat, the actions to happen in a familiar sequence. But Isabel just looked at her, never moving, never changing, until there was nothing to look at. 

She searched for her notebook with panicked, urgent moves although she doubted she would ever fail to remember the name. She wrote it again, in bigger letters, underlined, under the initial one. And then she just stared at it, like there was something to derive from the name alone, until the shock dissipated enough for her to finally type it in a search engine. 

Her phone rang, she struggled to answer it with her nervously twitching finger. 

'Dodson.' She barked, slightly distracted as her search results were a bunch of occult bullshit, detailing the hierarchy of demons on aggressively ugly, goth blogs. She was thinking of ways to modify the search terms while there was a long pause on the line. There was an awful amount of static, as if it was a call made in a middle of a storm, or six feet under. Then he heard Crowley's voice, sounding all throaty. 

'You summoned me?' 

She looked at her notebook, the name written twice, at her browser's search bar, her search history that lead her to ancient paintings of a winged, serpentine creature and to a few portraits that, maddeningly enough, looked slightly like the A. J. Crowley she met, but couldn't have been, as they originated in the sixteen hundreds. _Sort of._ she thought.

'I want to talk.' She said.

'Fine. I'll meet you at your place.' 

'I can be there in half hour. Are you far away? My address is…' 

'In thirty minutes then.' Crowley interrupted, then he hung up.

She scowled at her phone as if the man could see it, then began another call to a trustworthy informant. 

'Beeman? Hi, it's me. Have you ever heard of a guy named Crowley?'

She unlocked the door and was immediately greeted by a chubby russian blue, who meowed at her, demandingly, withering around her feet. She knew that his feeding was long overdue, as she was working late into the night. Again. She bent down, patted the decidedly annoyed creature and looked up only then, to see someone by the light pouring in from the hall, sitting in the dim lounge, in the middle of her safely locked apartment, straddling a chair. She was on her feet immediately, holding her gun at the intruder with her right, searching for the light switch with her left. 

'I'm a police officer. I've got a gun. Don't move!' She said and the words sounded awfully melodramatic, within the confinements of her own flat.

Light flooded the room and revealed Crowley, looking profoundly disinterested by the gun yielding, scared cop.

'How the fuck did you get in here?' Angela demanded, after a quick glance around confirmed that no windows were pried open. They were on the fifth floor anyway, breaking in through the window would have been an impressive climb.

'I've got my methods, you've got yours but I suspect that we are not here to share secrets of our trade.' 

Angela waited for her heart rate to slow and considered shooting the unthreatening Crowley simply for the heck of it. But she needed him, so she didn't allow herself to entertain the idea too thoroughly. 

'You wanted to talk about Isabel. How familiar are you with her case?' She asked instead.

'I think it's best if you walk me through it first. _You show me yours, I'll show you mine._ ' 

Sentences like this, when she was alone with a potential junkie and criminal were disturbing at best, but she knew enough self defense to put an expression of mild surprise on Crowley's impassive face if needed, so she decided to put her gun back in its holster. He slowly emerged from his seat and put his chair back in its place by a small desk with uncharacteristic politeness.

'Come to the kitchen? I need to feed Duck.'

 _'Duck_?' He lifted his right brow dubiously.

'Yeah. What? Do you find it funny?' 

With his eyes constantly hidden behind thick, black glasses the man looked as if nothing could ever cheer him and simply ignored the question. 

'Would you like something to drink?' Angela asked as routine kicked in and she was searching the cupboards for the last remnants of cat food anyway.

'Alcohol.' Her guest said, sitting behind the table in her stuffy kitchenette. 

She wanted to say that she didn't keep any, as she barely drank apart from the occasional beer, but she remembered having been gifted a bottle of liquor recently. So he raided her cupboards, she concluded, mildly annoyed. He was lighting up in her strictly non smoking flat while she was pouring and she had to bite down on the inside of her cheek to stop herself from making a comment. She complied anyway offering a small glass of clean, seethrough spirit. He quickly chugged it, and used the empty cup to trap a spider that chose that precise moment to scram through the table. Crowley leaned forward, lifted the glass a hair's breadth and blew some smoke under, filling up the cup, before trapping the spider again. Sufficiently amused by asphyxiating the arachnid, he turned his attention back to the dumbfounded Angela, who finally remembered to shake some cat food in a bowl for Duck.

'I'm investigating the murder of my sister.' she began. 'Isabel was a patient in a psychiatric ward. She's been diagnosed with schizophrenia when she was twelve and she'd been in and out of hospitals ever since.'

No longer busy with Duck, Angela avoided making eye contact through her speech by finding a saucer for Crowley to use as a makeshift ashtray. She pushed in front of him and with that out of the way, she took a deep breath, like a deep sea diver, sat across the table and looked Crowley in the face.

'Yesterday she was found dead. She jumped off a roof.' 

The man showed no reaction, apart from a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. 

'I thought you said she was murdered.' 

'She would never commit suicide.'

'Yeah, what mentally ill person would?' The sarcasm was subtle but sharp. Having heard the exact same arguments before, Angela was ready with an answer. 

'Yes, well, this time, just before she was committed, she became paranoid. She began to talk about angels and demons. Mr Crowley, I think someone has gotten to her. Some sect or cult. They talked her into jumping off a roof.' 

The silence was so thick this time, she could hear the feather light noise of ash hitting the china, paper flaming up as the man took another drag.

'I've asked about you at the precinct. You seem to be moving in occult circles, involved with demonology, exorcisms, those kind of things. I was hoping to find out more and that you could point me in the right direction.'

'Oh, yeah, of course.' Crowley said hurriedly. Then he simply pointed down, meaning the ground, the Earth and what was under it, way, way below. 

'Isabel was a devoted catholic.' Angela was practically hissing. 'If she killed herself, that would mean…'

'That her soul went straight to Hell and it's being torn apart, then put together again, in never ceasing torment, until the end of times. I'm familiar with the concept, yeah.'

Angela looked at him, with a level of hurt matching someone's who's been slapped across the face. She felt tears of unspeakable anger manifesting in her eyes. She reached across the table, picked up the cup and left the smoke and the spider out just in time for the creature to still be able to run for its measly life.

'I hope _you_ rot in Hell.' 

'Oh, that is a very palpable possibility, dear.'

She jumped up, crossed the kitchen and the hall in a few steps and held the door wide open for Crowley. He dragged his languid body upright, took his time putting his cigarette out on the airly decorated china plate.

'You wanted my expertees, Ms Dodson, well, I've got some insight to offer. Despite your belief, you seemed to be laboring under the impression, that demons and angels and all those other creatures from the books are mere abstracts, metaphors for, say, the duality of human nature. What you don't understand, that there's been a real, albeit hushed, cold war - like scenario happening; a long standing battle between the sides of Good and Evil for the dominion of Earth.' 

He shuffled out from behind his chair and crossed the flat in a lazy stroll.

'What if were to tell you, that both sides are getting increasingly tired of this shit? It's been six thousand years, there is six billion of you now. The wager's rule simply doesn't suffice any more. What if I were to tell you, that everyone wants to have a real conflict, a final battle, that would decide, once and for all, who gets to rule and who gets eliminated?' 

He stopped, standing really close to Angela, staring intently, with his usual, unreadable expression.

'I would have to advise you to quit whatever drug you are taking.' 

'Isabel wasn't murdered, Angela.' 

'It's D.I. to you.' She said, flashing her badge. 'I want you to leave.'

'She is a casualty of war. She must have been an instrument, somehow, in the angelic plan to thwart all Evil. But unfortunately, the other side got to her first.' 

'You just said she wasn't murdered!' 

'Because that's not allowed. They whispered to her. They've said things, that when she was her most vulnerable, would have easily tipped her over the edge. But that doesn't make her decision to take her life void. So she must suffer for all eternity.' 

'Demons? Agents of Good and Evil, Mr Crowley? No. People are inherently evil, yes. People would do that to her. But I don't believe in the Devil.' 

Crowley reached his hand to his glasses, took them of, making Angela gasp in an involuntary spasm of shock. His eyes were alien, snake eyes, yellow with black slits of utter void. 

'That's a bit of a shame, because the Devil most definitely believes in you.' 

'Leave. Now.' Angela repeated, but all anger has left her voice. Crowley obeyed her anyway. 

Angela tried her best to compose herself. CCTV footages were talking to her, she was meeting men with yellow eyes… she must be having a bit of a mental breakdown. It's the strain of the events, the lack of sleep, the grief she is suppressing. She went back to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water. She took a sip, but poured it all out, as it had some kind of bitter aftertaste. The air was full of a distinct stench that couldn't possibly have been the cigarette smoke. Duck was meowing loudly and staring intently at nothing in particular. His tail was bushy, his pupils enormous. Angela felt the little hairs on her neck standing up. Following her instinct, she walked to the window. Down on the street she could see Crowley, walking slowly away, a newly lit feg bobbing in his mouth. But up, in eye level something else demanded her attention. She couldn't quite see what it was, as it moved past the window so quickly and it was dark at this level, above the streetlights, but she could have sworn that it had wings. And _talons_. 

Against her better judgement she was flying down five flight of stairs. She may have thought that Crowley was a despicable human being, but her job was to protect everyone, regardless of their level of pleasantness. Running, she quickly caught up with the man, who was simply walking in an aimless, unhurried manner. 

'I'll humor you.' She said loudly, from afar. It made Crowley turn, but not to stop. 'Say that I believe what you said about the epic battle of Good and Evil. What is your role in all of this? Why are you telling me these things, why are you trying to convince me?' 

She heard it then. It was the noise of multitudes of leathery wings, moving in the air. The stench was ever so strong out here. Crowley, who must have noticed these sings too, increased his speed, taking Angela by the arm. At the end of the street in front of them, a streetlight quietly gave up on life, leaving a patch of darkness hanging in the air in its place. A second one went off a moment later, and a third one in the other end of the street. If this was a power cut, it was the most unnatural she had ever seen, as even when the whole street was bathed in the thick molasses of darkness, there remained one brightly lit shop window; it was displaying religious knick - knacks, little curiosities with Mary's and Jesus' face on it, it had crosses and statuettes of angels. They were heading towards that last, lonely island of light. 

Crowley turned on his heels, braced his back against the shop window and scrambled in his jacket, breathing with relief as he found his Zippo.

'Close your eyes.' He instructed Angela.

'Why?'

'Suit yourself.' He shrugged.

The light behind them began to flicker, then went out. They were drowning in darkness, in warmth and in noise. Something brushed her face that had the temperature of human skin, but not the texture. 

Then there was a click of the Zippo and the rag she'd seen wrapped around Crowley's hand went aflame. He lifted his fist and the light of the fire seemed curiously amplified by the surrounding utter darkness. In the amber glow of flames Angela saw dozens of creatures that could be best described as the rotting carcasses of some mutant predator. The things head no heads, eyes, brains, and some were missing limbs, but they all had enormous bat wings and hungry, gnawing mouths, full of rows of pointed grey teeth. As the light fell on them, they began to burn away, falling apart to flakes of ashes. Angela realised that the darkness was their shield, as these creatures could not stand the touch of light. They all burned into smithereens, without leaving as much as a scratch on them. But that didn't mean that she wasn't scared for her dear life, as the light quickly returned to the street or that she could stop herself from falling on her knees and vomiting bitter bile. 

'It's the sulphur.' Crowley explained with something like sympathy in his voice. Angela didn't correct him.

'What were those?' She croaked. 

'Something that does not belong here.' He offered her a hand and announced in a nonchalant, matter of a factly way. 'I need to eat.' 


	6. Hell to the liars

The fact remains that only Crowley didn't eat that time. Angela gladly gobbled his portion of eggs down too, lining her upset stomach pleasantly. Crowley was nursing a cup of coffee, staring constantly through the diner's windows, probably searching for some more metaphysical threat. 

'Those were demons.' He said eventually. 'It's against the rules for them to be here.'

'You are here, too.' Angela pointed out. 

'I am what we call a half breed. I am a demon, occupying a human body. A little, ingenious way to bend the rules. I am here to tempt, to make sure that enough souls end up in the blazing hellfire. Some people call this balance. I call it hypocritical bullshit. But those, those were actual demons, the kind you'd find in Hell itself and they were never supposed to cross in the first place.' 

'I can't see what's so surprising about your kind breaking the rules. Let's take you. You were, just now, destroying your own, supposedly to save me. You know that the end is approaching but you don't know when or how and you are ready to kill any demon crossing your way in an investigation to find out what my sister's role in this whole mess is. Your side doesn't tell you anything and you are ready to stab them in the back. You are a separatist. You've gone rouge.' 

Crowley peered at her, a little pout informing Angela that he was impressed with her powers of deduction.

'I've been following the lead of my last remaining ally.' He said, after some initial hesitation. 'He was last spotted in LA before he went missing. The signs were implying that your sister's _potential_ suicide had a crucial role in his dealings here and I was hoping to trace my friend through her. Does the name Aziraphale mean anything to you?' 

'It reminds me of Bible study a lot.' She stopped, mid - masticating, to stare at the demon. 'Oh, my. _Is_ he an angel?'

'Pretty much the only person I've left to trust.' 

Angela looked the man up and down. She had no idea that immortal beings could be this bad at their respective roles. 

'I don't think I've met him.' She admitted. 'I don't know if Isabel could have known him. My sister and I… we weren't exactly close.' 

Crowley could tell that there was a lot of story buried here, but had no time to go hunting for skeletons. An idea was beginning to form in him. It was the last straw of course, but God help him if he was a fool enough to let that go.

Back in Angela's flat Crowley was gazing at the telling signs of a life lived alone, the ones that were so prominent in his own flat too. Lack of pictures or knick-knacks testifying that there was no one to dress their everyday life with the Sunday best of their prolonged company. The half empty takeaway boxes and carelessly stored underwear littering the furniture emitted the air of dreary monotony of the work/sleep routine. The lack of anything to look at this flat was hypnotising, it made you stare almost against your will, at the bare walls and even barer calendars. 

Angela returned with a pot full of water and a small smile of doubt on her face. She placed it in front of Crowley's chair and he submerged his snake skin boots. 

'I need something that was hers.' 

After a brief pause Angela grabbed Duck's soft flank. Crowley stared.

'Will it do?' Angela hesitated.

'Perfect. Half - in, half - out already.' He said, placing the irritated tomcat on his lap.

Angela positioned herself on the floor. She was sitting right in front of Crowley, who looked like a shy suitor on grandma's sofa, as he balanced a cat precariously on his knees.

'Don't you need something with a bit more… I don't even know, occult air about it? A bunch of black candles or a pentagram?' She asked, jokingly. 

'Why? Do you have any?' 

The purest expression of exasperation crossed Angela's face. She had to close her eyes to prevent rolling them. 

'Great.' She whispered to herself. She took most things in her stride so far, but she was nearing the end of her tether. 

'You can't stay, Angela.'

She just stared at Crowley. He looked so apologetic, despite his face changing so slightly. It was in the small twitch in a muscle by his mouth.

She got on her feet. She stepped through the front door.

'Look after him.' She warned the pair of them, leaving intentionally unclear if she'd addressed the demon or the cat.

She was closing the door behind herself, when Crowley took the small vial of holy water out of his pocket. His held the cat's face steady with his hands and began to focus on the pair of small midnights in the amber field of the cat's iris. They began to grow as he stared, pulling with the sheer force of black holes, until Crowley was falling, yet again. 

When he next looked up, he wasn't at the flat any more.

He was in Hell. 

Angela Dodson was standing on the roof, hospital gown flailing about, wild shock of brown hair around her face. 

No, scratch that. It's just that the woman, standing on the edge, looking in the middle distance, at the flaming fields of the hellish equivalent of LA, looked exactly like Angela.

'Isabel.' He whispered.

The woman turned around.

'Crowley.' She greeted him. 

All around them, the hounds of Hell were closing in, Crowley could feel. They followed him, ready to catch and drag him in front of the high ranking officers. He had to get out of here, sooner, rather than later. 

He took a step towards Isabel. She was busy, climbing on the edge, yet again, reenacting the biggest mistake of her life in a never ending cycle of repetition. He had seconds before she was about to fall. So much for a thorough interrogation. Standing ever so close to the abyss she opened her clenched wrist with a gesture that implied giving up, giving in, waving goodbye. But something flew out of her palm, rose towards the sky, spiraling upwards on a hot thermic, then began to descend again in the general direction of Crowley. The first hounds appeared, crawling crab - like, over the edge of the roof, while Isabel began her journey towards the inevitable reality that followed every single fall.

Crowley took off, with a flying start. The quickests hounds were snatching on his ankles as he ran, towards the piece of paper, his only evidence, still sauntering, slowly, on its own terms. The demon let his wings appear and helped his jump by a few swoops of the terrifying, beautiful instruments, but it didn't matter, the hounds were just as agile, their claws, jaws closing in on him. His fingers brushed the paper, reaching for it desperately. With his left he lifted the vial to his chest, then smashed it, spraying holy water in his wake.

'Look after him.' Angela warned the pair of them, leaving intentionally unclear if she'd addressed the demon or the cat.

She was closing the door behind herself, when she heard Crowley call after her in a weak voice.

'Angela.' 

She stepped back, but instead a slightly agitated demon and cat he found Crowley, crumpled on his chair, coughing, jacket smoking. He looked up at her, with a pained expression, that made the officer in her spring into action. She was tearing the flaming jacket away from Crowley as quick as she could.

'Twins.' The demon on the chair heaved.

'What?' She was kneeling now, forcing Crawley's lolling head up, hysterics worming their way into her voice.

'You are twins. You never told me.'

'How do you know?'

Crowley leaned back, sprawling over the back of the chair. 

'She killed herself. She jumped off a roof. And she had gone to Hell for it.' 

Angela collapsed. The tears, held back for so long, began to roll. It's just that her death, for a believer like Angela, wasn't real. Not until now.

Crowley ignored her, letting her grief find a way and began to uncrumple the bit of parchment in his hand. It was old paper, he could tell, after years of listening to Aziraphale's lectures. It was softer, thicker than what you'd find in a modern book. It had a yellowish sheen. It had a familiar, seventeenth century handwriting on it. 

Flashes of orange light washed over the taxi, illuminating Angela in stroboscopic fragments. Crowley looked at her every time when they passed a streetlight, but he shouldn't have bothered; Angela's passive, cried out face was unchanging. She reminded him, worryingly, of Lot's wife. 

So he decided to sneak a peek on the parchment again.

_4045: When the Beast of Crocus Eye sharle meet the seed of witches, his ende sharle cometh soon._

The evil always carries the promise of his own destruction in itself. It's too volatile, much like fire; it destroys, in its wake, what's been fueling it in the first place. There was nothing surprising about this. 

Ultimately, all he felt, was a spark of fondness for the angel; even amidst the chaos and confusion of the last of the days he still found a way to deliver this warning. He couldn't help himself; he always had a soft spot for the fallen. Good old angel, he mused, turning his eyes towards where, he suspected, the constellation of the Alpha Centauri would be. Feeling suddenly homesick for a place he'd never visited, he shouted over the cabby's melodic Pakistani music.

'You couldn't play some Queen by any chance, could you?'

But they have arrived by then, just as the first lights of dawn began to wash away the dark just like the last sacrament would wash away all the sins.

While he didn't plan on wasting demonic powers on persuading the hospital staff to let them sniff around in Isabel's room, the unusual request and his dishevelled look created too much suspicion. He felt better when they finally managed to close the door on themselves. The room looked much like he remembered heaven; the sunlight, flooding the place was bleaching all signs of colour, of life. Some would use the word pure; he'd describe it as sterile. He didn't know what they were looking for, so he turned to Angela, who was busy trying to convince herself that she wasn't here, that this whole thing wasn't happening to her. So Crowley was left searching on his own, but he ran out of hiding places quickly; privacy was a precious commodity in a psychiatric ward, where life was lived in a petri dish. Nothing under the mattress, behind the small bedside table, inside the single cupboard, except for a few loose possessions of Isabel; gowns, pyjamas, fluffy slippers, towels and a very soft, very unthreatening brush.

'Your sister, what was she like?' He asked exhausted.

Angela snorted with mild disgust.

'What is there to say about her, poor fool? She was very sick, Isabel. She's been hearing voices since she was a child. She said it was the dead, whispering to her. The doctors said it was her split personality speaking.' 

'No, before that, before all the sickness.' 

'I don't know. It was so long ago.' 

'Of course you know. She knew you. She would have wanted to tell you. You said there was no note, but she never would have left without saying goodbye. She must have left some explanation, some evidence. She knew you'd come looking for them, she'd know all the places where you'd look. You were twins, you were practically the same person.' Crowley let the urgency in his voice show, he was crowding Angela now.

'No.' Angela whispered, shaking her head violently.

'At some point, in the beginning, you were so alike, you had no secrets from each other, your thoughts were the same. You'd tickle your nose and she'd sneeze, you'd bruise your knee and she would cry.'

'I WAS NOTHING LIKE HER.' The detective was pushing him away, retreating to the far end of the room. She broke down again, the tears, once kept so well under control, flowing freely.

'At least not any more. When were children we both used to hear the voices. It was almost like those games that twins tend to invent. But Isabel, she always wanted to tell everyone about them. And when nobody believed her, she sent them to me, because I had the gift too. But me? I lied. I said I'd heard nothing, I'd seen nothing. So they put Isabel in hospital and I eventually stopped hearing anything. I betrayed her and now she's dead and I have to live with it.'

Crowley sighed, backed away and rested his throbbing forehead on the quickly warming glass of the large window panes. He was pushing it, pushing her beyond limit, wanting to go too fast, too soon, as always, but at least he had a genuine excuse this time. He had so little time, the world had so little time and everything was getting more and more complicated, arcane and out of control. And all the while his untreated burn radiated pain, his scorched skin stretched uncomfortably, he lost an eyebrow and smelled like a barbeque and on top of that all this bloody light was giving him a bloody migraine. 

It's symbolism, Aziraphale explained as they were preparing to switch roles. They needn't to have all that illumination in Heaven, but Angels, they are creatures of light, the same way demons are creatures of fire. He always thought that it was a bit on the nose, but, ah, well, what can you do...

Creatures of light. Crowley forced his aching eyes open. With nose almost touching the sheet of glass, he breathed gently on it, leaving a large cloud of condensation behind. He moved his head, covering as much of the window as he could, and right on the middle of it, the water vapour revealed something written in the invisible ink of the fine grease that covered the author's shaky hand. It wouldn't have shown if it wasn't for all the sunshine. A message left on the window. In breath. In light. So this is how it felt, having a guardian angel. 

He could not recognise the uncertain, tallish letters; they were a bit like a child's hand, but he concluded that it must have been written by Isabel. It said one word only, but that was all that Crowley needed. It was, fucking finally, a lead.

_Mammon._

That's all it said. 

Upon feeling the approaching evil presence, Gabriel allowed his dirty white wings show. The St. Vincent de Paul was practically empty anyway.

'Wily old serpent.' He croaked.

'Gabriel. My man.' 

'What do you want, Crowley? Contrary to the popular belief, heaven does not appreciate the prodigal son routine. Particularly if it's coming from a demon.' 

'Oh, why I'm here to do what I do the best. I am offering you a deal.' 

'You'd have to do that at a crossroad.' 

'It would _suit_ me better to do it there. Wherever there's decision, there's temptation, a chance to be lead astray. But instead, I am here talking to you on sacred grounds, which weakens me. It's a sign of my sincere intentions, me coming to your house.' 

'You don't know the meaning of sincere. And it's His house. I am but a humble servant. What's the nature of your deal? ' 

'I have information, worthy of you attention. I recently learned the details of Hell's plan to bring forth the Apocalypse.' 

'Selling out your own side nowadays? That's a new low, even for you.' Gabriel turned his attention away from Crowley, staring down at the theological book he was theatrically holding as Crowley arrived, with the slightly guilty air of someone who only picked up a volume to look intelligent holding it. Crowley could tell that he wasn't reading it now either. He was merely buying time.

He closed the book with a heavy thud that reverbated in the church. 

'And what's your price?'

'I want to know if you've got Aziraphale with you. Is he okay?' 

'And you are expecting me to believe that? That you are making a deal to find out if your boyfriend is okay? No.' Gabriel laughed. 'Everything you've ever done, you've only ever done it for yourself. '

'Is that a yes or a no?'

'He's fine. He realised the last minute what's good for him and he joined our ranks again to fight on the winning side in the final battle. You can see it too, can't you? That evil shall perish. As you are here, desperate, trying to earn you way back to His good graces.' 

'I want to see him, speak to him. 

'God talks to no one these days.' 

'I meant Aziraphale.' 

'Fat chance. We spent the better half of six thousand years trying to convince him to return to the righteous life. I am not letting a skilled temptress like you anywhere near him. Ah, but this reminds me, he wanted me to deliver a message. He said that the Arrangement was over. And that he is sorry.' 

The words were like a physical blow, made him stagger back, but Gabriel probably couldn't tell, as he was convulsing left and right anyway because the holy ground was slow roasting the soles of his feet.

'Here it is. Now deliver your end of the deal.' 

He briefly considered wiggling his way out. Gabriel was careless, did not set the specific terms, he had plenty of loopholes to take advantage of. But he didn't know how much Aziraphale knew and he had no means of finding out or warning him and his only remaining way of helping the angel was to help his side and this particular asshole within.

'Fine. Have you heard of Mammon?' 

'One of your slimy friends, I presume.'

'He is a friend to no one. He is the Prince of The Damned. The Ruler of the Cursed. He is the Son of Satan. And he is coming to Earth to take, what he thinks, is rightfully his.' 

'Impossible. He can't cross. It's against the rules.' 

'I sure tried to tell that to the dozens of demons I've seen flying around downtown LA the other day, but I'm afraid they were too preoccupied trying to kill me to listen.' 

'Why should I believe you?'

'I made a deal. My word compels me.' Crowley sounded offended.

'You seemed to have been implying that your side has very little regards for the rules just now.'

'Fucking fine. Because it's written in The Bible. In Revelations.'

'No it's not.' 

'It's written in _our_ Bible.' 

'Hell has a Bible?' 

'It paints a slightly different picture. It says the world will not end by God's hand, but be reborn in the embrace of the damned.' 

He searched his pocket for a crumpled photocopy of the relevant pages. He thought about ripping them out, as that had a more dramatic flare, but anyone who spent six millennia with Aziraphale would know better than trying to defile a book from his personal collection. 

'Here: " _The sins of the father would only be exceeded by the sins of the son._ " It says Mammon has no patience for his father's rule and yearns to forge his own kingdom of fire and blood.' 

'There are measures to stop that kind of happenstance, Crowley. Physical laws.' 

'Ah, but there are loopholes. Your side already took advantage of it. Nazareth, remember? Roughly two thousand years ago? In fact the likes of us, the influence peddlers are taking advantage of it right now.' 

'But he would need an exceedingly powerful psychic to possess.' 

'Tell me and Isabel Dodson about that.'

'Isabel who?'

'The most powerful medium of the century. She died two days ago. Suicide. Probably an attempt to flee having to become Satan's earthly vessel.' 

'Well that would sort all our problems nicely out.' 

'Yeah. All tickety boo. Except. She has a twin sister. An equally powerful medium. She is repressing her powers but it wouldn't take much to turn her into the perfect host.' 

'Oh well. That was indeed useful information. Thank you. And now begone. Why are you still here?'

'Waiting for you to tell me what happens next. What are going to do? I'm tipping you off about the biggest jail break in the history of creation. I just want to know that the matter is taken care of.'

'That wasn't part of our deal.' 

'I could even help, if you just told me, you understand.' 

'Ah, here it is. It's always another deal with your kind, isn't it? Haggling, holding on for your dear life, rat escaping the sinking ship. I can offer you no protection, I'm afraid.' 

'As I never asked.'

'And you think that I won't recognise an attempt to gather intel as a form of leverage? I might be guilt free, blameless and unblemished, but I'm not naive. All I can offer is to pray for your soul… or whatever is that you have… when you are wiped out of existence on the battlefield of Armageddon.' 

'Don't fucking bother. And Gabriel. Just one more thing. The prophecy says that for Mammon to cross, he would need Divine assistance.' 

'What do you mean?'

'I mean that if I were you, I would be a bit less smug about the Apocalypse. For Mammon to cross he would need help from God.' 

He collected Angela from the confessional booth where he made her hide. She heard every single word and was positively shaking. He put his jacket around her shoulder. It wasn't a shock blanket but it was better than nothing.

At the gate Angela hesitated, her foot hovered above the threshold, the other one firmly planted on holy ground.

'I'll be in touch. And I've got a place. The owner, Midnite is completely neutral. He'll keep you safe from both sides. Given that he is compensated.' 

'Pay? Crowley I don't have that kind of money...'

'He doesn't take any currency you might have. He'll be content with my middle name and something more. A few drops of blood. A secret I never shared with anyone else or a favour. They'll rapidly devalue quite soon enough anyway.'

'What are your plans?' 

'Alcohol. Extreme amounts.' 

'The world is ending and you are planning to get smashed?' 

'If not now, when? I don't think it's worth starting healthy living or getting a life insurance now.' 

'You could do something. Your powers...' Angela stopped mid sentence, pretty brows distorted by an expression of horror and surprise, but the demon got too worked up to notice.

'No I can't do anything, because I don't get a choice. That's a privilege only humans possess. I get the consolation prize of fighting a fight that I have no vested interest in side by side with a bunch of assholes against a different bunch of assholes in order to destroy everything I ever held dear until I di…'

'Crowley!' 

Two things happened at once. Angela was taken. Standing next to him one moment, she suddenly disappeared before Crowley had time to stop it, or even just process the whole thing. The last thing he saw was her primal fear.

Then a right hook, so powerful that it left him spinning around his axis and clutching desperately for his consciousness, got him on the jaw. He fell on the ground, on his hands and knees, so the second blow got him on the spine and only the fact that he wasn't entirely human had saved his life. He rolled away from the next attack, straight to the gutter, but at least he got a glimpse of his challenger; a vaguely anthropomorphic tower of withering pests. Beelzebub didn't bother corporating than, he realised. He tripped the approaching entity, that fell on the ground and exploded into a scampering heap of roaches, flies and snakes, but soon gathered itself into a swaying pile of insectoid and reptilian bodies. 

'You traitorous, flesh loving bastard. I can hardly wait to kill you.' 

'Trust me, the sentiment is mutual.' Crowley said, putting on a brave face, but he was constantly backing away, pathetically. 

He wasn't quick enough. Beelzebub grabbed him by his lapel and threw him on the hood of a jeep that was parking nearby. The car's engine crashed and collapsed under the impact, its front wheels exploded and the alarm went off with offended righteousness. He could feel warm blood trickling down his temple. He was fighting back nausea as he staggered onto his feet, out to the road in a desperate attempt to get away from Beelzebub, who was hot on his heels. He was shuffling sideways, trying to put another car, parking on the other side of the road between them, but by looking at Beelzebub's determination he knew that a mere pile of metal won't stop him. 

Then, there was the blare of the horn. The predatory screech of sudden braking. The flash of the headlights. And a speeding car crashed into Beelzebub, who was still tethering in the middle of a road, turning his body of a myriad despised animals into a mush of simple nervous systems and seethrough blood. There wasn't enough animals for him to materialise again, so the fight was over and Crowley had a moment, to gather himself,

The attacked drained him. Rattled him. 

But most importantly it pissed him off.


	7. I'm not here looking for absolution

The bouncer demanded a password again, so he punched him in the face then marched steadily on. Midnite waited for him in his office, ready for a fight, shouting something about Crowley being out of his mind, but his bravado left him as soon as he took sight of the demon.

'Shit man, what happened to you?' 

He came out from behind his table, but not to attack. He pushed Crowley down in a chair and inspected his various burns, cuts, bruises and open wounds with a quick and expert glance. He didn't offer first aid, though. He was a businessman, not a babysitter. He pushed a cigarette in the demon's mouth instead and lit it for him. Crowley let him, sitting limply in his armchair. 

'A bloody demon attacked me on the street and I don't mean a half breed, I mean a fully manifested, festering pile of damnation, Midnite.' 

'That can't be.' 

'You are the only idiot still playing by the rules, you know.' 

'What is happening?' 

'Mammon is happening. Daddy's attention seems to be elsewhere so he is sneaking out to party.'

'But the powers of heaven…' 

'Useless as always. I just came from warning them and they still allowed the most important tool in this unholy plan being stolen from right under their noses. Well, I did too.' 

'So what's the plan now?' 

Crowley's face clouded. He got hold of the feg, took a deep breath of the smoke. 

'The plan is that I'm going to stop them.' 

'You? Alone?' 

'Why, you want in?' 

Midnite laughed.

'I'll need weapons.' Crowley pleaded.

'No, what you need is a bloody miracle and I don't want to be, in any way, connected to this.' 

The demon pulled something out of the pocket of his jeans. He handed the soft parchment over to Midnite, who unfolded it and read the prophecy with a stony expression. 

'It's my dying wish.' Said Crowley. 

'You are not stopping shit. It's a suicide mission. Why are you doing this?' 

'What bloody choice do I have? I ticked off both sides. My best chance for survival is if I stop the Apocalypse.' 

'Second time round?'

'What can I do if they keep on happening?'

'You didn't do it alone last time I recall.' 

'Yeah, well the angel must have thought that it's not the best omen that I'll die trying so he went back to his side. They are a bit more forgiving up there.' 

'That sucks.' 

'I can't blame him.'

'You could if you weren't so smitten with him.'

The cigarette burned down and that was precisely all the time Crowley was allowing himself for wallowing in self pity.

'Well,' he said to Midnite, getting slowly up. 'it was nice knowing you.' 

'Hold up for a moment. You can't bring down Heaven and Hell without the adequate weaponry.' 

Clearly they threw all caution to the wind, Crowley concluded as he got out of the taxi in front of the hospital. He could smell the demonic activity from miles away. It smelled like brimstone and black tar. He estimated that there were about fifty fallen crowding in the building's entrance hall. He took account of his inventory, considered his options, then decided on the Cross of Isteria. 

He entered the building through a basement window and went straight to the boiler room, that was on the same level. He found the main water tank and forced the silver cross in it through a narrow opening, bending it slightly in the process. Turning all the water in the building's plumbing holy, he made his way upstairs. 

No one took notice of him, as he entered the lobby. The fifty that were present were all low level demons who wouldn't have recognised him even if they knew who he was. Luckily, they all corporeated, otherwise the room would have been filled with nightmares personified. Though they still reminded Crowley to movie zombies; they looked slightly uncomfortable within their skin, unsure of their new bodies. But they looked human, nevertheless.

No one stopped him, when he stood on a chair that was left out for the patients. No one even blinked when he took out his Zippo, lit it, then held the flame to the sensor of the sprinkler system. He closed his eyes as he heard the fire alarm going off, heard the screams of the damned. He waited for the burning sensation as the holy water drenched him along with his kind.

But it never came. He felt the weight of arms instead, around his shoulders and his back as someone pulled him in a tight embrace. He opened his eyes and found himself under the umbrella of a pair of beautiful white wings. The last shrieks died down, the sizzling gradually stopped and the shower of holy water slowly turned into dripping, but Aziraphale wouldn't let go of him. He patted his friend's back in a gentle, but stiff and uncertain manner.

'Good to see you too, angel.' 

'What were you thinking? You very nearly died!' 

Aziraphale was practically shouting. He held Crowley away from himself to make a visual search and make sure that he was unharmed. He was clearly furious with him, but Crowley couldn't wipe his radiating smile off.

'You are here. I can not believe it.' 

'Given that I am trying my best to thwart the Apocalypse I could hardly be anywhere else.' 

'I thought your side didn't want you near this. Given your track record of stopping the end of the world.' 

'Do you know me as someone whose deeply concerned about my side's opinion?' 

'Gabriel said that you were back on speaking terms. That you wanted out of the Arrangement.' 

'Oh dearest and did you believe him?' 

'Well, he knew about the Arrangement, for one. What was I supposed to think?'

'That' Aziraphale looked embarrassed 'was a mistake. I just didn't know what to do. I couldn't think straight when I saw that prophecy. I pleaded him to save you. I told him how many times you saved my life, how you were technically on heaven's side all along due to our arrangement, how your biggest evil doings were causing minor inconveniences for Londoners, how…' 

'Excuse me! All my plans are fundamentally sadistic and menacing!' 

'Yes, well I couldn't say that, could I? But Crowley, I would rather die than betray you.' 

'Yet you still kept me at arms length when it came to dealing with the Armageddon.' 

'I know. I'm sorry. I just… I knew you would have wanted to come if I told you all about it. I thought by keeping you in the dark, I could keep you safely tucked away.' 

'That backfired spectacularly.'

'I'm sorry.' Aziraphale repeated, looking truly tortured. 'I messed up pretty much everything along the way. I didn't realise that they'll be able to find a new psychic so quickly. I thought I threw a real wrench in the engine when I talked Isabel into jumping off the roof.' 

'That was you?'

Aziraphale positively blushed.

'I may have implied that it was her only option.' 

'Can an angel even do that?'

'Well, while my side doesn't approve of suicide, they are appreciative of sacrifice. You know, giving your life to save humanity, that stuff.' 

'Blimey. A loophole.' Crowley stared at him as if it was the first time he ever saw him. Whenever he thought he knew the angel inside - out, Aziraphale always went one step further than he'd expect him to go. 

'We'd better get a move on.' Aziraphale was clearly uncomfortable with the demon's heavy, searching gaze. 'We need to find out where are they keeping the new vessel.' 

'She's got a name, you know. Angela.' 

'Of course.' 

'And they would need water for him to cross.' 

'There is a therapeutic pool.' Aziraphale pointed out.

'That would be my best guess.' 

He let Aziraphale lead the way, so he could drink in his familiar sight again; the white-blond, feather like hair, the ever so slightly pudgy, soft frame. The angel made him feel welcomed, safe and forgiven, like if the Fall was just a bad nightmare. You would think that all angels had these qualities, but during his six thousand years of existence he only had this sense with Aziraphale. The others were all cold and calculating; a trait evident in Aziraphale in traces, when he talked about sacrifice, greater good, and human vessels. Heaven was all morals with no passion, Crowley always thought. Hell was all passion with no moral. 

The angel wore a paper thin, white gown, similar to the one he'd seen on Isabel and a tan trench coat that he must have nicked from somewhere as it wasn't part of the standard hospital gear. It must have been an attempt to save his dignity. It begged a question.

'What happened to you? Where were you in the last three days?'

'I was obviously making too much noise, attracted too much unwanted attention, running around, trying to stop the Apocalypse. They trapped me in this very place. But with the birth drawing nearer they must have let their guards down and I had a chance to escape. Imagine my shock, when the first thing I saw was you, sprinkling holy water around like a bloody kamikazee.' 

'I don't like the sound of this, Aziraphale. Why did they keep you alive in the first place? And so near to the very operative that you were trying to thwart? And then they just let you escape all of a sudden? It sounds almost too easy.' 

'Believe me' said Aziraphale darkly. 'there was nothing easy about it. By the way, it doesn't look like you were having much of a joyride.'

'And most of it was done by my side.' Crowley touched the cut on his temple. Dried blood sprinkled his fingers in flakes. He must have looked a mess. He didn't even think of wiping his wound after his fight with Beelzebub. 'Imagine if your side got to me first.' 

Aziraphale reached out, grabbed and squeezed his burnt hand.

'I'd rather not.' He said and when he let Crowley's fingers go his deep wound was gone, apart from a thin, silver scar across his palm. 

They reached the pool and to add Crowley's growing suspicion, there were no guards, not even a few maniacal groupies excited to welcome Satan's heir. But that did not stop the angel from marching in without a thorough search of the place and Crowley had no choice but to follow suit. To their horror, they couldn't see Angela either at first, but then they spotted her simultaneously. She was a mere floating shape at the bottom of the pool. Aziraphale began to run towards her.

'Stay back.' He instructed Crowley. 'It can be holy water.' 

He jumped in the pool with an ungainly hop and ducked under the surface with the elegance of an animal that decidedly wasn't the least aquatic. Crowley stood on the poolside, fully expecting to die due to the fact that he had to jump in holy water to help his drowning angel friend. But soon enough Aziraphale resurfaced. If he was crying, it was impossible to tell, from all the water dripping down on his face, but his expression was the epitome of grief.

'Isabel.' He was showing the crumpled little female body to Crowley.

'That's Angela Dodson. Come on, angel, keep it together.'

He lay on his stomach and offered his hand to help. The angel seemed to have wanted to say something about the dangers, but thought better of it and heaved Angela on dry land with the demon's help. And the water didn't burn, apart from where it touched his cuts and that was only due to its chlorine content.

She was already possessed, they could see. Mammon was so powerful that his sheer presence distorted reality and he turned Angela's graceful features into something twisted. But the Beast was still slumbering. Something crucial was missing for his release. 

'We need an exorcism.' Aziraphale said, rolling up his sogging sleeves up. 'How did you find her? Or more importantly, how didn't I? She's glowing with spiritual energy. She should have been like a beacon, yet I could only sense Isabel upon arriving.'

'She wasn't like this earlier. I don't think she could even remember having powers until this morning. They must have done something to her to prepare her for the ritual. But for once, they'll be playing to our hands. I told Gabriel all about a second psychic. The cavalry must be on it's way by now.' 

'You told _Gabriel_ about this? Oh, dearest, no.'

The angel got up, gesturing to Crowley to carry on. He let his wings appear and in the angriest voice Crowley had heard from him in six thousand years he shouted.

'Into the light, I command thee. Into the light, I command thee...'

Shitshitshitshit.

He lay his hand on Angela's forehead.

'In nomine Patris, et Figlii…' he began reciting the Trinitarian formula, but the sacred words burned, they made him cough, in a violent fit and when the seizure subsided and he spat on the floor to clean his mouth there was blood mingled with the salvia. 

'Into the light I command thee.' Aziraphale shouted and then 'Show yourself, Gabriel!'

What the…?

Something came crashing down on Crowley and he found himself, pushed on the floor, under the feet of a particularly smug looking Gabriel, who bent down to him, twined his fingers around Crowley's red locks and yanked his head up from the floor.

'Thanks for the tip about the medium again.' He purred in the demon's ear.

'You filthy liar.'

'I hadn't lied. I had Aziraphale all along, safe and sound, locked away in a padded cell.'

'Why are you doing this?' He croaked. The weird angle of his neck was crushing his larynx, he was drowning on dry land. 

'I am simply seeking to inspire mankind to all it was intended. They all granted redemption. All they have to do is to repent. The only creatures in creation to have this precious gift.' 

'The only creatures in creation forced to apologise for doing what God intended to do them in the first place.' 

'I knew _you_ wouldn't understand.' Gabriel's voice was filled with gentle sadness as his trashed Crowley's head violently in the concrete floor.

'Step away from him!' Aziraphale demanded.

That was bad. It turned Gabriel's attention on him. Crowley couldn't allow that.

'And how's handing over the Earth to the devil's son going to fix anything?' He whispered, through his loosened teeth and through the blood that was oozing from his broken nose.

'They are murderers, traitors, rapists and God loves them so much still, so I shall make them worthy of all that love.' 

He got up and started to walk towards the angel. This made Crowley get up too. He conjured a tight circle off Hellfire around them. Finally Gabriel turned back towards him.

'It's only in the face of horror they truly find their noble selves. And they are so noble then. So I'll bring them pain, I'll bring them horror. So they may rise above it.' 

Crowley felt the angel's immense power wash over him. It lifted him from the ground and threw his body against the ceiling. He left a deep trench in the reinforced concrete, before trashing against it over and over again. Finally, the strain made his consciousness slip for a moment, the fire went out and with that Gabriel threw him against the pool's glass door, like he was a forgotten ragdoll, a toy that lost its power to hold his interest. He sat there, fighting to stay alive, trying to mend his body, surrounded by glinting glass shards, covered in dust, as he was going rapidly into shock. 

Not all angels are created equal. They were made with different functions, different design in mind. Aziraphale was created to sooth and forgive. Gabriel was created to wield flaming swords and bring the fear of God. There was never a question who was going to win the fight. But to his credit, Aziraphale stood his ground for a long while, delivering some punches that made Crowley's palpitating heart quiver with joy. But he was overpowered soon enough. Twisting his arms back almost to the breaking point, Gabriel made his subordinate kneel. He retrieved a blade from the waistline of his tailor made pants and with one fluid motion sliced Aziraphale's throat open. The angel was dead before he even finished the movement. Gabriel let his body tumble on the side and lifted the knife to his eyes.

'A blood of an angel. This must do as "Divine assistance" goes. 

Crowley couldn't tear his gaze away from Aziraphale's limp body. His lungs were too damaged to curse, shout or scream. His consciousness seemed to have shrunk into a single point. _This is not how it ends._ it was drumming in his head. 

With shaking fingers he scrambled for a sharp piece of glass. He was dying, but it wasn't fast enough. Meanwhile Gabriel knelt down next to Angela and rested his hand on her abdomen. 

'Son of Satan' he announced with pathos 'I unleash you to the Earth.' 

He saw how her body convulsed as the impatient demon crawled against her womb. He understood suddenly why was Aziraphale talking about a birth. Holding the glass shrapnel to his wrist, he made a slicing motion. Blood bloomed and flowed freely as he opened his artery. He was going to cut his other wrist as well, but he must have destroyed some crucial muscles with his clumsy incision, because his fingers refused to bend around his blade.

In the meantime, Gabriel's knife hovered above Angela. He was preparing for a horrible mockery of a C-section; but of course he didn't care if the mother was to survive.

Crowley closed his eyes. _Come on, hurry up._ He was willing his heart to pump the blood out of his body even faster. As life left him, time suddenly seemed to have lose its significance and eventually stopped and simply stood still; drops of blood suspended in mid air, Gabriel's blade frozen in its trajectory towards Angela's body.

And with that he finally died.


	8. Selfish prayers

'Crowley.' 

The smooth voice had a quality of a deep, animalistic growl just above the threshold of perceptibility. Falling from heaven suited Lucifer. He could allow his psychotic tendencies to flourish in his new environment.

'Hey boss.' 

He was wearing an ill fitting white suit. Black tar was dripping from his bare feet. He smiled at Crowley with a predatory smile.

'The one soul I would come up to get myself.'

'I am truly honored.' The demon croaked. He patted his jacket down for a smoke. Nothing. Shit. 

'Well, don't be. You've been a naughty boy, Crowley.' 

'One does what one can.' 

'And I've got a theme park of red delights for you.' 

'Can't wait.' 

Lucifer stepped to him, grabbed his lapel and began pulling him away as if he was planning on dragging Crowley back to Hell through the streets of LA.

'But before we leave, can I interest you in a little family reunion? Your son is here.' 

'Good for him. He gets out of the house at least.' 

'Possessing a psychic.'

'Boys will be boys, eh?' 

'Getting some divine assistance from Archangel Gabriel.' 

This finally made him stop.

'I will not be fooled by your smooth, forked tongue again.'

'See it for yourself if you don't believe me.' 

Lucifer still hesitated.

'Come on, Lu. You can have fun with me for an eternity. What do a few seconds matter anyway?' 

Lucifer flashed a cannibalistic smile at him, then released the collar of his jacket and marched to the perverse diorama of Gabriel, Angela and the knife. 

'Time to go home, son.' He mumbled softly to himself, closed his eyes and ironically, turned his face towards the heavens as he unleashed a shred of his powers and forced Mammon's presence back to where it came from.

He turned his attention to Gabriel next. The angel came back to life, shocked to see the Devil himself.

'There world will be mine. Eventually.' Lucifer reassured him.

'The unholy one.' Gabriel breathed, staggering on his feet. 'I smite thee, in His honor!' 

He brought his knife down, trying to stab Lucifer, but the blade couldn't finish its route. It seemed as if someone held Gabriel's hand back. 

'Oh.' Lucifer sighed with delight. 'He doesn't have your back anymore.'

And, truly enjoying himself, Lucifer softly blew in Gabriel's face, which made the angel stumble back, like he was standing in the middle of the mightiest of storms. He tripped and fell in the pool behind him. Content, Lucifer turned his attention back to Crowley. He walked to the demon, who sat, slagging, too tired to really care.

'I owe you one. What do you want? An extension?' 

Crowley allowed his gaze to fall on Aziraphale.

'No jurisdiction there. They would have burned him by now anyway.'

Something else than. 

'Isabel.' 

'What about her?'

'She doesn't deserve to be in Hell. Release her.' 

'Let me get this straight, you want to save the woman instead of yourself?' 

It all seemed like a drag, all of a sudden. How long until the next Apocalypse, and the next one and the next one? And he would have to face them truly alone next time, himself against the rest of the world and it did not seem to worth it. So he simply nodded.

'Suit yourself.' Lucifer shrugged. A deep breath. Something came loose in the fabric of creation. And then: 'Done.' 

With that he grabbed Crowley again and began to pull. But something was off. The demon felt himself to be heavy. A presence was pulling him, forcing him to the opposite direction. And suddenly, light was flooding the room. All that bloody light, Crowley thought. All that bloody symbolism. 

'What' Lucifer was squinting as the heavens opened above them. 'is the meaning of this?'

Crowley was being lifted, in the light.

'It looks like I'm getting a pardon.' 

Lucifer's human looking features fell away as he allowed the Fallen Angel in him to show. 

'Oh no.' He was panting, holding onto Crowley's jacket with one hand, clutching the other one firmly around his throat. 'You _are_ getting an extension. Because one good deed does not change where you belong. You fell the first time because of who you are. You will fall again because of the life you live.' 

All around them, reality was changing. Crowley couldn't tell how, but he could clearly feel the shifts in the core of the known world. The light, for one, was subsiding.

'Because you'll live.' Lucifer whispered in his ear, sounding tired, but content like a spent lover. 'You will live.' 

When he came to, the scenery was the same. Poolside. But everything's been prettied up a bit. No crack in the ceiling. No blood and broken glass.

No Angela. No Aziraphale.

He felt light, whole again. He looked down on himself, patted his body down. Gone was the broken nose, the cuts on his wrist and his temple. His cracked spine and ribs where intact again, his teeth in mint condition. His burns didn't just heel, they straight up disappeared as if they never happened in the first place and he looked and smelled clean, no stench of blood, bile, smoke, no sign of scorch marks.

He felt for his phone. He looked at the time. It was early morning, which would have explained the beautiful, rosy light bathing the room. It changed the place's eerie atmosphere completely. In the light of the dawn the pool looked almost like a place for healing. But he could also see on the lockscreen that the date have changed. It appeared to be the third.

He didn't bother unlocking the phone to dial, he simply used his powers to will it to ring the person he wanted to speak to the most. 

_This is Aziraphale. Unfortunately, I can't take a call now. Please leave a message after the…_

'Bloody Hell, angel.' He cursed, hanging up. 'Answer the phone!' 

He was going to redial, but the noise of splashing and choking, coming from the water, temporarily distracted him.

It was Gabriel, resurfacing ungainly. He was drenched, looking confused and terrified. He lifted his hand to his shoulder, circled around in an attempt to peer behind his back, allowing Crowley to glimpse the two stumps, caked in dried blood, sitting where once his magnificent wings resided.

Crowley reached down the pool, grabbing a fistful of Gabriel's hair. 

'Is _this_ it? Your punishment? They turned you into human?' 

He didn't deserve, Crowley fumed. The higher powers were so fucking soft. So he headbutted Gabriel as an attempt to bring balance, breaking the man's nose in the process. Gabriel moaned pathetically, his expression a mixture of suffering and wild disbelief.

'This is pain. Get used to it, fallen.' 

He let him fall back to the pool, when he heard his phone ringing. He almost exclaimed in happiness when he saw the caller id.

'Hi, are you alright?' He barked.

'I'm fine.' Angela reassured him. 'Crowley, what happened?'

'Nothing happened. That's the whole point. There was no Mammon, no birth, no sacrifice.' 

'I don't understand.' 

'We are back to two days before the whole shitshow went down. Angela, there was never a suicide. Your sister, Isabel is still alive.' 

' _Oh my God._ ' 

'He had nothing to do with it. Listen, I am at the hospital right now. I'll go talk to her, tell her to not to do anything stupid.'

'Put her on the phone when you are there.' 

'Will do. Meanwhile get your ass right here. It's time you took her home.' 

He used the key under the mat to let himself in. The sight of the bookshop without Aziraphale always made his heart clench with sadeness.

That's why he was so relieved to find him snoozing on the sofa. 

'Angel.' He whispered placing his hand gently on his best friend's shoulder. 

Aziraphale woke up, eyelids fluttering rapidly, until he saw Crowley, upon which he allowed his heavy head to fall back on the arm rest. 

'Dearest.' His voice sounded exhausted, but pleased all the same.

Crowley came around, forcing himself on the couch, placing Aziraphale's legs over his lap. 

'You forgot about the lunch at the Ritz, haven't you?' 

'Fuck.' He said it so softly, it almost didn't sound like a swear. He was trying to sit up, startled. 'I was reading, I must have dozed off...' 

'It's okay.' Crowley patted the sole of his foot, gently. 'You've been working very hard. How are they getting on?' 

'It seems to be doing a whole world of good to Isabel, living with Madam Tracey.' Aziraphale was rubbing his eyes, trying, but unable to chase the sleep away. Crowley suddenly felt guilty for waking him. He clearly needed the rest. 'But, to my surprise, the business did not start to boom after she enlisted a genuine medium.' 

'That's because people who go to seances don't actually care for their dead relatives, they just want echo chambers. Has Shadwell's been grumbling about having two Jezebels in the household?' 

'Shadwell is clearly delighted with her, that's why he is putting up a grumpy face. It's a pretence so she doesn't see how he loves her like the daughter he never had.'

'Really? How would you know?' 

'Angels understand the nature of love.'

'Oh, sure, of course.' Said Crowley sarcastically, which Aziraphale graciously ignored.

'He's only known her for a weak and a half, but he would readily die to protect her. Which is nothing to scowl at, given that she is still an insanely powerful psychic, a commodity highly sought after by both sides.' 

'Still playing games, angel?' Asked Crowley, annoyed. 

'Just trying to be cautious.' 

'No, you are micromanaging. That's the problem with your side. You think that you know what's best for others. You haven't the faintest clue.' 

Crowley got up from his chair and began to pace the room, propelled by all the pent up anger.

'Crowley…'

'What you care about is the greater good, but not about the individuals. Isabel, Shadwell. Me. Are we your friends? Or mere pawns?.' 

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, blue eyes wide, mouth half forming words that have never arrived.

'You are angry, of course.' He blurted eventually.

'I am livid. You shouldn't have pushed me away like that, angel. It's all good and well, trying to save the world, but you must allow us to have a voice. God granted the humans the Freedom of choice. Stop trying to take that away!' 

'You've got every right to be cross.' Aziraphale was busy studying his hands now, avoiding the dizzying sight of the demon, who was still trading a path in the soft, worn carpet on the shopfloor. 

'Hell yeah I have. You thought that keeping me out of harm's way was going to be enough. But when I was confronted with the possibility of having to live in a world without you, I just couldn't face it. If I learned anything from this little adventure, is that you are all I have. That is, if you still feel the same about having our Arrangement in place.'

The anger dissipated and there was something so raw in Crowley's voice, that it made the angel get up too. He circled the sofa in order to face the demon, but his friend was seemingly busy reading the spines of the books in cookery section.

'What made you think that I changed my mind about the Arrangement?'

'All this secrecy, angel. I mean what is the point if you don't feel you could trust me?' 

'Trust' said the angel, pinching the bridge of his nose under his round glasses 'doesn't even begin to describe what I feel.' 

'Well, I can not afford to lose you again, so I demand full disclosure from now on, yeah?' 

'No.' Said the angel softly, sadly. Crowley couldn't repress a shocked little gasp. 

He whipped his head around and watched as Aziraphale stepped closer. He took Crowley's limply hanging hand in his, tracing the line where his burn had been with his thumb, absentmindedly. 

'Truth to be told, I am ashamed of my recent behaviour. I've done some things that I am not proud of. But my biggest regret is to make you feel, that you've been abandoned. Because let's admit it, I've committed some unjustifiable things. Yet, if I am honest, I would do them all over again in a heartbeat. To save you. So the Arrangement is to stay, yes, but we have to make some fundamental changes, if you agree.' 

'What are you proposing?' Crowley could hardly recognise his own voice, it was so heavy, so pregnant with emotions.

'We'll have to figure the details out together. All I know, in these past millenniums, I've kept thinking that we have an eternity ahead of ourselves. But now, I can not know that the next Apocalypse is not just around the corner again.' 

'It gets easier, stopping it, with each time. Practice makes perfect.' 

'All the same, I can not be sure that luck will be on our side again. I don't know what would I do, if I had to watch you being crushed by angels once more, or get messages, prophesying your death again.' 

'The Corinthians says that there are no true prophecies.' There was so much pain in Aziraphale's expression, it overwhelmed him. He had to say something to ease it.

'But it was true. You died. You were dead.' 

'Yeah, but only for a minute or so.' 

'I just can't take you or our time together for granted anymore.' 

And with that, he lifted Crowley's hand placed a kiss on his palm, with a shy look, and he allowed the demon to run his thumb over his lips, while his fair skin got covered in the most beautiful, all encompassing blush.

'How fast do you want me to go?' Crowley asked, cautiously, because he had a thousand intense desires boiling in him, demanding action.

'I thought I'll let you set the tempo this time.' 

_Your mouth is like fine wine—_

_flowing smoothly for my love,_

_gliding past my lips and teeth!_

_I belong to my love,_

_and his desire is for me._

**Song of songs 7:9-10**


End file.
